A Song of Ice and Fire and Oneshots
by DelinquentUnicorn
Summary: I have fanfic commitment problems, so a collection of oneshots is more appropriate than a real story with chapters. Most of these are focused on backstory and theories, so probably not a whole lot of spoilers, but tread lightly.
1. The Bastard of Winterfell

"Leave us for a moment," Ned said to the wet nurse, who bowed and left the tent with a soft flap of the canvas.

In his arms, he held an infant. This was the first time he'd ever held a baby before. He hadn't known what to expect, but even so, the sheer smallness of it took him by surprise. Its tiny head fit cupped into his large hands, the callused skin of his palms contrasting with its dark, soft, downy hair. It was strange, he thought, how everyone you ever knew, even he himself, had once looked like this. A little, helpless thing, unmarred by the world.

A wave of mixed affection and guilt washed over him. This child was his blood, too, in a way. Would be raised by him. Loved by him. And yet, the baby was not his son. That was when the guilt came, like a dark cloud over the light of a new life. He had tried not to think of it, but the sight of his sister lying on her deathbed had haunted him for many nights now.

She had been so beautiful before everything happened. Before she left with Rhaegar, before Robert had determined to go on his quest to get Lyanna back, before Ned left Winterfell. His last memory of her smile was as she rode away into the misty trees of the North, on the dark garron that she had loved so much. Her black hair had been done up in a braided crown upon her head, woven with flowers, and her eyes were a bright sky-blue, illuminating her long face. Ned waved her goodbye. Casually, though - he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that she would not return.

When Robert and Ned had arrived and rescued her, her health had already begun to fade. Her once lively eyes were now dull, clouded like dirty seawater. What really caught their attention, though, was her belly, swollen with child. She was almost due, and could barely stand, let alone walk.

Ned had not been present for the birthing - despite his strength in a fight, no amount of sword training could have prepared him for something like that. He stood down the hallway, cringing every time there was a high-pitched wail from his sister's room. Robert was no better in that respect, and had gone down to the kitchens to drown his anxiety in wine.

After what seemed like days of waiting, one of the midwives emerged and walked over to him, though she would not look him in the eyes. "Lady Lyanna desires your presence," she murmured in a hushed voice.

Ned strode in quietly, not knowing what to expect. He certainly had not hoped for what he saw. Blood-soaked sheets were being carried away discreetly. Lyanna's face was shiny with sweat, her hair sticking to her neck in strands. Her eyes were closed, and for a moment Ned's heart skipped a beat, but she was still breathing. When she heard his footsteps, she looked up. "Ned. Thank the gods you're here," she muttered weakly.

"Are you all right?" It was a stupid question, but his anxiety had made him feel slow, and he didn't know what to say. "Is…is your child…?"

The midwife piped up behind him, "He is alive. He. It is a son."

She walked over to the bedside and lifted the corner of a blanket to reveal the red face of a newborn baby. He fussed at the movement, but did not cry out. Ned started to reach out, but it looked so delicate that he thought it might break if he touched it. Instead he simply nodded, and looked back to Lyanna. Didn't she want to hold it? That was how it was supposed to go, wasn't it?

Lyanna coughed, and he jumped. "Have they given you any herbs? Medicine?"

She shook her head. "Milk of the poppy. But that's not -" she coughed again. "That's not the point. Listen to me, sweet brother. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"Care for my child, when I am gone."

Ned felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He hoped she did not mean what he thought she meant, but the defeated look on her face was different than he had ever seen her. "You will survive this," he said, but he wasn't convincing even himself.

His sister laughed, but it sounded almost like a sob. "Take him back to Winterfell, with you. I only ask that whoever his family is, they love him. And when he is ready, tell him the truth. About who he is."

It shocked Ned that he had not already asked Lyanna the pressing question. "Who is the father?" He was not sure he wanted to know.

She confirmed his suspicions with a whisper, "The prince."

Ned was silent for a long time, as she struggled to breathe. He felt helpless, and angry, and confused, and he did not know where to direct his feelings. The gods, perhaps, though that wouldn't make him feel any better. He had lost himself in thought when Lyanna spoke again.

"Promise me, Ned."

Those were the last words she ever said to him.

For the next week he had felt unable to function, but finally his company set out for Winterfell. For home. Though his grief was still deep, a hollow well in his stomach, he would keep his promise to her.

In his tent, holding the baby, Ned decided on what he had to do. It was the right thing to do, the honorable thing to do, but it would not be easy. Claiming the boy as his own would be simple enough, but the hard part came after. Years of lying, and secrecy. Breaking the heart of his wife back in the North, who would not know any better. The boy would be plagued with a bastard name all his life.

And yet, he knew he could not let the only fragment he still had left of his sister slip away. Looking at the child in the flickering candlelight, he thought of a name for Lyanna's bastard - no, Ned's bastard, he would be from now on.

"Jon," he said. "Jon Snow."

* * *

**Dun dun dun. Not sure if I totally buy this theory but it's fun to think about, so hey. :)**


	2. The Shadows Will Dance For You

A fire burnt in the hearth across the room, but the little girl shied away from it. She was curled in a large, draped chair, far enough away that none of the heat from the flames could touch her, and the embers that skittered across the stone died before they could reach her.

Except for the light coming from the hearth, cast red and orange about the room, there was only darkness. A tall, thick door barred with iron strips loomed on one wall, shut tight, but there were no windows. No sign of the outside world. She wondered if they were going to leave her here forever.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the bolt on the door slide back, and it opened with a deep, ominous creak. She expected to see more of the men in dark tunics, with the grotesque flames tattooed across their faces. They were the ones who caught her, who brought her here. The girl shuddered as she recalled their lean strength, carrying her away from the scarlet lifeblood seeping into the cobblestones. The sight of her parents, struggling, futile.

But the man who came through the door, alone, it would seem, looked nothing like those men. He was tall, with a thick body; more like a soldier than a holy man. And yet he wore priest's robes, ruby-colored, draped across his shoulders. His skin was red too, but not the bright red of fire or blood - a deep, earthy red, like clay. It made his face seem like a weathered stone.

She glanced at the man, but could not bring herself to look at him directly. She kept her eyes downcast and in the shadows.

"It's all right, young one." His voice was deep, but gentle. "I know this must seem like a horrible dream to you. But you are safe here, in the house of R'hllor."

The girl stared intently at his rough hands, that were laid upon the arm of her chair. She said nothing, numb with uncertainty and dread.

"What is your name?" the priest asked, with a smile.

When she got up the courage to look at his face, the girl noticed that the fire was dancing in his eyes, but it was with a comforting warmth, instead of malice like she had expected. She did not move, but her muscles lost some of their tension. She said, quietly, almost surprised at the sound of her own voice - "Melisandre."

The man nodded, and strode over to the fire, which had begun to fade and sputter. He put another log onto it and muttered something under his breath. A prayer, perhaps? Melisandre did not know.

He spoke again, this time to her. "What do you know about the Red God, child?" The flames, tended by him, rose up and flickered even brighter than before, so that they brushed the stone top of the hearth, reaching into the chimney.

The girl stared wide-eyed at them, frightened again. "Nothing. Not really. I've seen priests in the square, with their nightfires…" She shook her head. "I've heard your words, too. 'The night is dark and full of terrors.'"

"Hmm," mused the red priest, giving her a thoughtful look. "And do you know what that means?"

She shook her head. Her family...The girl's heart fluttered, almost ached. They had never prayed to a god. Not the Red God, not the Westerosi gods, or the gods of Slaver's Bay and the Summer Isles. She had never known a faith. Had never even thought about it, really. That was for her older brothers, for the beggars in the squares, clustered around nightfires with awe on their faces.

The man had his back to her now, and it almost seemed as if he were on fire, the light moving up and down his robes, casting dancing shadows across the floor. "Many, perhaps including yourself, see fire as a tool for destruction. It decimates wood and forest, blackens stone, ravages flesh. One of the first lessons a child learns is not to reach out for the candle. Stay away from the hearth. Beware the sconces on the walls. But they know nothing, Melisandre," he said, and her name sounded strange, foreign to her, as he said it. "From the charred ashes of the forest grow new trees, stronger and more beautiful than the last. Over the ruins of a burnt castle are laid the stones of a new generation. A field that was once burned may yet grow the most beautiful flowers."

From the side, the little girl could see the ghost of a smile cross his face as he stared into his flames. And he turned to her, then, hands behind his back.

"Do you fear the darkness, child?"

She shrugged.

"It is the long night that you should fear. When all other lights go out. When your nightfire dwindles down to embers and ash. But as long as we are here - we, the vessels of R'hllor - the darkness cannot touch us. Do not shy away from the moving shadows," he told her, drawing closer now. "They will dance for you. Where there is light, there are shadows, but they cannot hurt you. Keep your fire burning, and true, black darkness, will not come. As long as there is light, he can protect you."

* * *

**Everyone needs more baby Mel in their lives. R'hight?**


End file.
